The Angel Down in Hell
by APennyForYourThought
Summary: In the Underworld lies both Tartarus and the Elysian Fields, dear Christine! Erik does hope you see it that way. Choose the path to the Elysian Fields, Christine, and go on your way! Erik can make life in his home either torture or paradise. Choose well!


**A/N: The Sydney season of the Phantom of the Opera musical ended the weekend I was at Latin Camp... I've been somewhat sad lately and tend to reminisce a lot. While I was at Latin Camp, however, I went on a lovely bushwalk and took a trip through the 'underworld' (a steep valley in the middle of the bushland surrounding the camp). The teacher stopped at various points and read out some Ancient Greek/Roman myths about the underworld, and I found several parallels between the myths and Phantom of the Opera.**

**So a quick explanation: Three short fics in succession, in tribute to the Lon Chaney, cartoon and Claude Rains versions of The Phantom of the Opera (in that order). In the last one I also mixed in a bit of the ALW musical, because I love it and am mourning for its departure (Treat them well, New Zealand!). If you are not familiar with the myths and are absolutely confused by this story, review or PM and I'll give you a crash course. :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any versions of PotO, and the poetry of the Roman poet Virgil copied off Wikipedia (the italics) is not mine.**

The Angel Down in Hell

Her foot slipped off the stone, and with a shriek leaping out of her throat, her left ankle plunged through the water.

"Angel!" Her voice echoed around the cavern, the stone arches seeming to hide many watching eyes. "Help!" Christine pulled her leg out of the lake, the hem of her dress dripping and sodden. Her toes were freezing. "Angel!" she called again.

The gondola did not slow down. The figure standing at its stern continued to punt steadily. Christine hitched up her skirts and tried to run, to get ahead of it. Every few metres she would pause and shout to the figure on the black gondola, but no answering phrase or sidelong look was granted by him. Her dress would slip off the narrow pathway and dip into the lake, which was as black as the vessel that sent ripples along its surface.

As she tiredly gathered her gown in her fists once again to run along the stone bank, Christine saw the boatman slow in his movements. With her eyebrows creased, she watched the gondola veer slightly off its course. Her breath caught in her throat when the gondola pointed its bow at her, and with slow, strong punts the dark spectre directed it towards the bank.

The gondola ground against the bottom of the lake and stopped, while boatman made his way to the front of the boat and reached his arm out, inviting her into the vessel.

"Angel?" she breathed.

The long wait was over.

It was a blessing to hear his voice, and to have him touch her hand. She sat timidly, looking up at the boatman and straining to meet his eye.

_His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire._

Surely this was only an earthly form of the Angel of Music, it was so plain! She was not deserving of the Angel's true form. Years of tutelage after her father had died- It all seemed to build up to that single moment when the Angel offered her his hand.

Christine Daae felt that she had been living for the moment she stepped into that gondola. A flame burned within her heart, yearning to feel the boat rock gently beneath her heels.

But no, she had been dead before, so _dead_ for all of her life. And now she was suddenly living! She could taste the water on the air; she could hear each undulating ripple of the lake, and...

She could see the shore. With a flourish of his hand the Angel commanded a door to open, and light streamed out from the opening to bathe her. A bright joy filled Christine's spirit, and she waited patiently once again for what would happen next.

* * *

"You are a man!"

Her delicate legs crumpled underneath her. The tears came, and there was no stopping them. She wanted to hate him, hate him so...but no torrent of fury came. He spied on her, manipulated her- But there were only tears and emptiness.

He could barely contain his gasp. He reached for her, hands shaking...

She brought up an arm in defence. "Don't touch me!" Christine shrieked.

His flaming eyes flickered for a moment. "I beg your forgiveness, but you must come with me!"

His heart burned to see her cry on the ground. Christine must come, she simply must- His life was nothing unless she came. So she must, she must, she must...

She went limp with a dainty gasp as he held her and for a moment he feared she was dead, frightened to death of his atrocious form. But she breathed, still she breathed... Erik lifted her and put her over his shoulder. She was light, so light! If he dropped her he would never forgive himself. And so the long journey downwards began.

She looked beautiful when she was asleep, as she always did. As Erik gazed at her from a pace's length away, he could not help but think to himself that she indeed looked splendid on the bed he had prepared. The crimson sheets brought out her complexion, but the dress would have to be replaced with something slightly less dark. And of course, Erik had thought of that already-

"Shall I play for you?"

Erik is so happy now, happy that his Christine likes his music! In the underworld lies both Tartarus and the Elysian Fields, dear Christine. Erik does hope you see it that way. Choose the path to the Elysian Fields, Christine! Choose the correct path and go on your way!

"Yes... All right."

And she ran.

But oh, Christine, few mortals make the return journey from the underworld alive! You are an angel, and perhaps Erik will let you visit the opera house, but only sometimes-

He had to tell her. The words came smoothly, showing no trace of the turmoil he actually felt. "When a woman sees me as you have, she belongs to me! She loves me forever!"

And forever in Tartarus is indeed a long, dreary time, dear Christine.

Erik calmed himself. "Are you hungry after your little walk, Christine? Come, have some fruit." He offered in his curled fingers a round, plump little thing.

Christine's lips trembled; she was still staring at his horrendous face. Oh, how his hair falls limply around his ears... And Heaven, those eyes! She did not reach for the fruit in his claws.

Erik's eyes narrowed. Grasping her wrist –neither gently nor forcefully- he placed the pink fruit in her hand and encircled it with her fingers.

Smarting at his touch, Christine looked down at the fruit in her hand. "I have not seen this before." she muttered.

He chuckled. "It is called a pomegranate, dear Christine. It possesses a pleasant taste. The ones I have are particularly sweet."

She looked up at him, and saw his yellow eyes gleam fiercely.

* * *

"Go now!"

He reached for her hand, his fingers closing around her pale wrist. "I think it's time we left, Christine!" He pulled on her arm and turned swiftly towards the exit. This Phantom business was really too much...

A deep rumbling resounded around the chamber. "The whole place is caving in!"

"The shots must have started it." he said in answer. He gathered Christine in his arms. Her shoulders and upper arms were cold, as if no blood circulated through them. The most important thing was to escape, and get Christine back up to the opera.

"Swear to me...never to tell-"

With a mighty crash, the lair crumbled behind the three escapees. In absolutely no time at all, it was nothing more than a terrible place of destruction. Kicking the rubble away, they shifted into single file as they sprinted along the bank of the lake.

"-the secrets you know of the _Angel in Hell!_"

The journey was shrouded in darkness, and the three traversed the stone pathways in silence. Christine appeared to be in shock, and Raoul behind her was lost in thought. At his place in the front of the line, Anatole thought mainly of navigating the tunnels. Where the policemen had gone and ended up, God knew...

Eventually, they emerged back into the chaotic opera house. "We're back in the opera, Christine!" Anatole exclaimed exhaustedly, making an attempt to sound jovial. He turned on his heel to embrace Christine and usher her to somewhere warm-

Her face seemed to freeze. In that moment he saw the gold strands of her hair, the faint traces of pink on her cheeks- He saw every part of her with startling clarity in that single second... He watched each of her black pupils shrink agonisingly in horror. She blinked her lashes slowly, her beautiful lashes-

"Christine!"

-and when she opened her lovely eyes again, she vanished.

He lunged forward, but his hand closed around air. He spun around, blinked his eyes frantically, spun around again. He opened his mouth wide to call her name, but the sound was snatched away and drowned out. No one heard the shout. What on _earth_ had just happened...! Where did Christine go off to? Anatole whirled around another time, searching for a glimpse of her silver gown among the bustling crowd.

But no one was there except himself, less the screaming and chattering ballet dancers of the Paris Opera running around him on all sides.

**I'm not very happy with this, I must say. I started out by simply retelling what happened in the film/cartoon but that was just too boring and unoriginal. So the three ficlings are somewhat AU-ish, to better communicate the myths. Any concrete advice you can give would be greatly appreciated!**

**Mashed the 1943 ficling with a bit of the musical, since it's similar to what happened in the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. The ending of the 1943 film just didn't have enough impact for me. _Ooh, lair! Ooh, gun! Ooh, sword on top of piano! Ooh, rubble! _But Susanna Foster made a very pretty Christine, did she not? Couldn't resist the 66 word description; most Christines deserve one!**

**Okay, about the ficlings and their parallels...  
1925 film: Research the name 'Charon' if you need to...  
1987 cartoon: Hades and Persephone, one that the phanphictioners have used plenty of times.  
1943 film: Orpheus and Eurydice, as I have said.**

**Please review if it pleases you! Again, I would appreciate some constructive criticism.**


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